


Allegedly soulmates

by Pinophyta



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Words, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinophyta/pseuds/Pinophyta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A description of Bruce Wayne and the Joker's marks, and their reactions to hearing each other's words for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU details: the first words one ever hears from their soulmate appear on one's forearm upon reaching adulthood. The writing matches that person's handwriting. The words don't have to be exact (I paraphrased a little, in fact). The bond doesn't have any supernatural properties. Everybody has a mark, but very few ever find their pair. Marks are a little known phenomenon shrouded in mystery and myth.
> 
> I don't have a lot of experience writing AUs like this, but I wanted to give it a little try.
> 
> (Content warning: there's a very brief mention of self harm for pragmatic reasons near the end)

Bruce Wayne's mark appeared a few days after his 18th birthday. The letters materialized slowly, in strokes of aggressive handwriting:

_“take off your little mask and show us who you really are”_

Even before the words were fully formed, the writing itself worried Bruce. It was messy, erratic, like angry scribbles on his skin. The mark ended up taking half of his forearm, which was noticeably bigger than the average. To top it all, it had manifested in a deep, intense shade of black.

Bruce looked at it for hours, confused, trying to process his feelings. Unlike most kids, he had never paid the strange phenomenon much attention. He looked forward to it, but he assumed the mark would contain the first words Rachel ever spoke to him. He couldn't remember them, and he couldn't bring himself to ask Alfred if he did. They were toddlers when they met, and it felt like they had known each other since birth.

Those angry letters looked nothing like Rachel's neat and elegant handwriting. The words themselves were cryptic, and he could not imagine a context for them. He looked at them for hours, swallowing the bitter disappointment. Later, he calmly reminded himself that “soulmarks” were a little known phenomenon anyway, full of myth and superstition. From a purely scientific point of view, it didn't mean anything at all. This brought him some comfort.

He never told Alfred, but he never hid it from him either. The man respected Bruce's wish to ignore it, and even though the strange nature of the mark worried him too, he never brought it up.

Bruce did start wearing long sleeves more often, and even discrete adhesive patches in the summer. Covering marks wasn't uncommon. Though their significance wasn't fully understood, they were considered a personal matter. Questioning those who chose to hide them was deemed impolite. Jewelry, patches and makeup were the most common solutions. It worked for Bruce, and the mark stopped bothering him after a few years.

It wasn't until his flight back to Gotham, back to his life, that he thought about his mark again. He had spent years wandering, finding himself and his place in the world. Learning how different cultures treated the mark had been enlightening, but he remained indifferent to it. Ducard's teachings only mentioned marks in passing. Their doctrine was too practical and focused for that brand of mysticism, so most of their advice revolved around concealing them, or using them as identifying marks.

For a long time, he assumed the “mask” was a reference to his identity. It didn't occur to him that it could be a literal mask, until his plans to become Batman began to take shape. 

When the first fully assembled cowl rested between his hands, he took a moment to read over the words before trying it on. _“Take off your little mask”_. He laughed. 

He barely thought about the mark after that, too focused on his work as Batman to be intrigued by it. And in a way, he felt some measure of relief. The words made sense now, if only slightly, but they were easier to imagine in context for Batman than they had been for Bruce Wayne. When the Gotham Police Department's posture on the Bat became official, he wondered if his soulmate could be one of the disgruntled cops who didn't appreciate his work. The thought amused him. Later it occurred to him that his soulmate could be a criminal as well, and he stopped thinking about the mark altogether.

His work was too important for Gotham. And he still loved Rachel. Nothing else mattered.

When he heard the words for the first time, he didn't notice right away. He didn't notice they were his words, the mocking puzzle that had brought him so many headaches for so many years. He was too focused on fighting, on saving Rachel, and only after they plummeted down the building and he felt the impact of the car did the echo of that voice ring on his head.

“Oh, sure. You just take off your little mask and show us all who you really are!”

Maybe he misheard. He told himself that, stunned after the crash, holding a terrified Rachel in his arms. It had happened too fast to be sure.

\- - -

 

Once the dust settled, he checked the security footage. 

Watching the events unfold again, the way Joker had terrorized his guests, made him burn with anger. Seeing Rachel's intervention made him proud, but he worried about the possible repercussions of that. He hoped Harvey could keep her safe.

He examined the Joker closely, trying to find any details that could reveal more about him. He had done the same with all available Joker footage from different sources, but details without context were worthless. He needed a way to put them all together, make them tell him Joker's story, but for now it was a fruitless effort.

He watched his own arrival, paying close attention to the following fight. He would have to review it later, hoping that the man's rabid fighting style would reveal something about his origins. His training. If he ever had one, besides the ruthless streets of Gotham.

Then the Joker grabbed Rachel. Bruce turned the audio up, and when he heard the words, he knew them by heart:

_“Oh, sure. You just take off your little mask and show us all who you really are!”_

Well, it certainly explains the handwriting.

He paused the video and looked down at his forearm, weary. He wished it away with an intensity he had never felt before. All the thoughts and reasoning that had brought him comfort over the years felt insufficient in that moment. No matter how skeptic, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, it felt like a punch in the gut. 

He rewound the recording and listened to the words a second and third time. There was no question anymore.  
His eyes fixed on the Joker, wondering what force in the universe decided that murderous monster was his soulmate.

\- - -

 

The Joker got his mark in his youth, too. He was never a fan. It was an ordinary mark, neat handwriting, short and discrete.

_“you are going to love me”_

He hated it. He hated the arrogance in the words, like he had no choice on the matter, no control over who he fell in love with. They evoked the image of a self-aggrandizing prick, a pompous flirt, always confident that their conquests would give in to their charms. It made him want to spit in the face of cosmos.

With time, the very concept of a soulmate became absurd to him. He poked and scratched at the mark from time to time, laughing at all the concepts it represented. Fate. Love. A perfect someone for you, out there somewhere, chosen by some unknowable force... completely against your will.

Around the time he truly became the Joker, the mark became nothing but another identity feature to hide. Police records noted them, if present, but they were a secondary priority and rarely as useful as fingerprints and other records. He didn't feel like completely removing his, however. Some people did, bitter and angry, or jaded and hurt, most often with acid or fire. The Joker had his fair share of scars already, and he was not a fan of adding more to his body, but he put a knife to the mark every now and then. Or a cigarette. It didn't matter. The tissue healed fast, and the scars left behind weren't enough to completely distort the words. They were mangled, but legible.

He laughs bitterly at nature, and science, wondering why no other place of the human body can reconstruct tissue that well. He licks his scars.

The night he goes for Dent and finds the Bat instead, he is ecstatic. The force of his body pushing him away from the girl makes him dizzy, he doesn't process the words until the Bat's punches clear his mind. At that point, they begin to repeat like a hellish echo.

_“Then you're going to love me!”_

He gets it, now. It's not an arrogant flirt introducing himself to him (oh, he always knew his soulmate would be a guy). It's just a silly joke. And the Batman is telling it.

He wonders why this revelation doesn't make him feel any different. He already knew they were soulmates, in a way. This is just fate telling him, “You were right”. The universe, patting him in the back, telling him “congratulations, you figured it out!”. 

He pinches the mark, leaving traces of face paint all over his reddened skin. He smiles, then laughs, and then his laughter becomes a desperate howl full of bitter resentment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during TDK, from when Dent reveals himself as Batman, to when the Joker escapes the police HQ. Some musings from the Joker's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This fic will NOT be TDK Rises compliant)

The tinny voice coming from the tv pierced his mind, growing louder and louder each passing second. His mind felt hazy, clouded by hours of uneasy sleep, and when he opened his eyes it felt like the whole room was full of smoke.

He was alone. Of that, he was sure. It took him a few minutes to remember, but the address of his current location (and the date) came to his mind eventually. His pupils retracted. The tv voice came through clearly now. Harvey Dent was about to give an urgent press conference. 

The Joker woke up.

It was sunny outside. He breathed in the dust of the condemned building. He slept with a gun in his hand. He relaxed his grip, stretched his bones, and grabbed a wet rag to remove the smudge of yesterday's paint from his face.

He sat patiently in front of the tv, eager to find out what the blondie was cooking. If any important news broke out while he was away, one of his goons would notify him. The burner phone reserved for that was somewhere around there, but Joker had never needed it before. “Important news” meant “news about batman” almost exclusively, and lately everything related to him was gossip.

And besides, the Joker never was away for too long.

The pretty boy appeared on screen, all serious. No smile, not even a little one. It was disturbing.

The Joker stared, perplex, when Dent revealed himself to be the Batman.

“No, you're not.” he muttered.

But could he? He squinted, his eyes fixed on Dent's face. He always thought it would be easy to tell, but he wasn't sure. His jaw was strong, lips firm, he could pull a convincing Batman specially when he smiled less.

Chaos ensued and the tv station cut to their studio reporters. Soon enough a picture of Harvey Dent adorned the screen, while the press talked nonsense about the reveal they had just witnessed.

The Joker crawled up to the tv, eyes fixed on that picture like in a trance. He grabbed an old magazine from one of the rickety sofas and used it to cover the top half of Harvey Dent's face. He stared at his mouth, his jawline, looking for anything familiar or unfamiliar. Any hint for or against it. Anything.

He could not tell if this man was his bat or not, and it was eating him up from the inside.

Then was the matter of that night at the Wayne penthouse. Dent hadn't shown up, but the bat did. The bat threw himself at Dent's girl, perhaps a bit too quickly to have no relation. He knew the bat. This was... something else entirely.

His mind drifted to the girl. What was her name? Dawes? Maybe she was Dent's soul mate. Maybe their marks matched. But if Dent was the bat...

A ringing phone took him out of his trance. He fished it out from under some old newspapers, and recognized the “emergency phone”.

He picked it up, said “I know, I was watching” and then hung up. At the other side of the line a group of goons muttered, some in confusion, others in excitement.

The Joker could not take his eyes off the screen, but now his gaze was cold and defiant. He wanted proof. He would have proof.

He dismissed the tv and turned around, diving into a pile of old newspapers and magazines. He needed pictures of Harvey Dent, more than just a smiling headshot. He needed a picture where his arm was visible. Where his mark was visible and legible. He needed to know.

Paper after paper, and all he found were pictures of Harvey during his campaign, always wearing a suit. Where were the summer candids? Where were the gossip articles about his soulmark? Wasn't he famous-y enough to get frivolous shit written about him?

What about his day to day life? Did he truly have enough time to be Batman at night? He hadn't been following the man's personal life close enough, and now it didn't matter.

He found a bit more about Rachel Dawes, but only because of her connection to some famous billionaire, and the tabloids loved that junk. He wondered about the mark in her arm, who could its words belong to, and how she figured into the Harvey-Batman situation. He'd have to ask her too, just to be sure.

The Joker could feel his next course of action forming in his head. Not a plan, not per se, but merely a line he would follow until he had to choose another one.

Dent was being taken into custody. They'd take him to county, after a trip to the police station.

This was an opportunity he couldn't miss. If he was Batman, he would kill two birds with one stone. If he was not, one bird was just fine. All he wanted was the chance to roll up Harvey's sleeve and take a quick look. And if someone had to chop the man's arm and bring it to him, so be it.

He picked up the other phone. The good one. All the numbers were in his head anyhow.

First he spoke with the clowns. They had a cache of weapons he was eager to play with. Now would be as good a time as any to use them. He gave them orders individually and in twenty minutes, everything was set in motion.

Then he spoke with the Italians. Not as easy to socialize with as the clowns, but they were sophisticated folk. He asked for explosives, they asked if gasoline was okay, and the Joker was delighted. Whatever worked for them worked for him. This part was just a failsafe anyway.

He hung up, his throat parched, and the excitement over the upcoming evening taking over him. Batman or no Batman, he had a date with Dent. Deep down he knew it wasn't him, but he couldn't explain why. It didn't sit right in his mind, in his heart.

He didn't want to think much about what would happen if he turned out to be wrong, and if Dent truly was the Batman. He wouldn't be able to stand it, to be paired up with such a pompous dick.  
By sundown the whole show was ready to start, and my, what a show was it going to be. The Joker smiled with glee, sitting on the the cabin of his newly acquired truck, loading a shotgun. 

It was important to enjoy the little things, after all.

 

\- - - -

 

They took a picture of his mark when he was taken into custody, along with his fingerprints and everything else. But nobody paid it much attention. There was nothing remarkable about it. If only they knew...

The Joker could barely contain the urge to laugh, but for now he would play it cool. After the events of the night, he couldn't be any happier. Or so he thought, until the Bat showed up.

He was a lousy interrogator, and he was asking all the wrong questions. Luckily the Joker had plenty to say to him, and whatever violence the bat could inflict upon him would pale in comparison to the effect his words would have.

His mark was completely exposed during the whole interrogation, his cuffs undone and sleeves pulled up. Batman didn't look at it once.

The mirrors were too unnerving to have the conversation that surely both were aching to have. As amusing as it would be to let everyone know, that was a discussion the Joker would rather have in private.

Nobody would believe him anyway. It was too perfect to be true. The Joker could barely believe it himself. He read the words out loud every day, trying to remind himself that it really happened, so that the memory wouldn't get lost and be mistaken for a delirium.

No, the Batman was His. All he wanted was the chance to read his own words on Batman's forearm. For confirmation. One could never be too sure.

If only he had gone for the gloves instead of the mask when the fool was lying on the pavement... Oh, but he was curious about his face too. Now, that would be a tough decision, choosing between knowing his face or reading his mark. Very tough.

Almost as bad as the choice he presented Batman with. Maybe even tougher. Batman had it easy, really.

And with him gone the Joker had the green light again. Had he known visiting the Gotham police HQ would be so exciting, he would have tried it sooner.

He had a few more ideas for Gotham. And for Dent. And several criminals lined up to fill the vacuums of power he had just created in the mob. The ideas were rough, but they had potential. He didn't know if any of them would help him get a one-on-one date with the bat, but he would try anyway. You never know where things will take you.

It's not like there's a force deliberately pushing fates in this or that direction. That would be crazy.


End file.
